


Something Like Friendship

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:45:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months ago he probably would have bristled at the question and shut Ishida down, claimed he didn’t have a “usual”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of the 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge by ghiraher on tumblr: bartender au

The finish on the counter is peeling again; they put on a new layer every summer and the wood is almost invisible by now through the uneven translucent layers and the dim lighting; it’s really just another hole in the wall but at least it pays. It’s not like Ishida doesn’t absently pick at the finish himself sometimes (he’s not as bad as Mayuzumi, though; the guy has scraped off whole strips at a time just spacing out during off-peak hours). The bustle has slowed and the couples meeting here for dates have left; the only ones still here are a few regulars, a few confused tourists looking for “local flavor” (the only flavor they’re getting right now is stale bourbon) and a few of the interchangeable lonely college students who seem to stake the place out in shifts. Ishida glances at the clock; there’s still time before he arrives. He mechanically wipes the table again, ignoring the way the dirt is caking under the edge of the peeled-back top layer.

“Looking for your boy?”

“Stop sneaking up on me.”

Mayuzumi shrugs. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

He makes everything his business and then denies his interest later—Ishida might hate the guy if they didn’t work together; he’s efficient and good at settling conflicts and makes a killer vodka martini. And in the realm of coworkers he’s probably the least troublesome—Himuro makes messy drinks that spill everywhere, wasting good alcohol and making the floor disgusting and slippery, and the extra customers he brings in with his good looks only make up for that a little bit. Kimura’s friendly but he and Ishida never have anything to talk about, really; it always seems awkward between them so they sort of avoid each other and stick to working. Ishida scrubs harder until Mayuzumi’s gone—he can never tell for sure (he’s got to be a fucking ninja or something; he walks silently and his steps are normal; it doesn’t look like he’s trying to creep across the floor or walk on proverbial egg shells or anything), and he’s so caught up in listening for Mayuzumi’s voice elsewhere that he jumps and drops the towel when a different voice reaches his ears.

“The fuck are you doing, scrubbing the finish off or something?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

Haizaki actually looks okay today; the bruises on his shoulders are faded and there’s a spark in his beautiful eyes (Ishida would wager many people have lost themselves looking inside them; they’re the kind that make romantics weak at the knees and terribly impressed, and despite Haizaki’s untidiness and that horrible hairstyle the eyes make him strikingly attractive. Ishida would wager he could very easily get anyone to fall for him—that is, if his personality didn’t get in the way and he didn’t end up at the same bar pretty much every night.) that usually isn’t there, the stony gray sharply shining like some kind of rare mineral in the sun.

“The usual?”

Haizaki snorts. “You have to fucking ask?”

A few months ago he probably would have bristled at the question and shut Ishida down, claimed he didn’t have a “usual”—he’s slow to open up but Ishida’s being patient with him. It helps that he always pays his tab, and so maybe he got that money hustling on the street somehow but money’s money and he got it from the other guy somehow (some days it’s more obviously a struggle than others, bruises streaked across those sinewy forearms like stains or even stigmata if Ishida’s feeling particularly sacrilegious). No one’s come complaining to the bar about dirty money yet, and after a year of Haizaki frequenting the place they probably aren’t about to start now.

And all of this comes in bits and pieces, anyway; it’s all observations (Ishida’s own are punctuated by Mayuzumi butting in; his inferences are always eerily on-point) and what little Haizaki’s willing to share. Even learning his name was an accident, one of the few times he’d brought a companion who’d called him by name. Ishida has never addressed him properly; he’s pretty sure Haizaki doesn’t really want him to know it—at some point he’ll probably glare and say it’s fine for Ishida to use it since he knows it but that point seems far off now. He still doesn’t know what Haizaki’s first name is—but he doesn’t need to, does he?

Ishida pours a glass of sake and places it on the counter; Haizaki takes a long sip.

“So anyway,” he says.

Ishida leans forward on the bar. “Yes?”

Haizaki shrugs. “Did you catch the game this afternoon?”

“Saitama and Akita? No.”

“Man, you missed a good one. Saitama’s got that rookie center, Umeda—he fucking destroyed them.”

“No kidding? Isn’t he supposed to be a defensive specialist?”

Haizaki shrugs again. “He was ridiculous at both ends of the court, man.”

Talking basketball with Haizaki is all kinds of wonderful; half the time it devolves into Haizaki trash-talking Ishida’s favorite team and trying to get him angry (it worked once or twice a long time ago and the damn bastard holds it against him still) but even when it’s that it’s still great. The kid really knows his stuff; he might not be as into stats as Ishida is (he’s been dubbed by pretty much everyone he meets as “that basketball nerd” for a reason after all) but he understands the game deeply, better than anyone else Ishida knows. He just gets it—the feeling of the rough orange sphere in one’s hands, the urge to protect it, the way standing on the asphalt and dribbling centralizes and normalizes everything. Ishida hasn’t played in a long time, but just watching, just thinking about it, gets him more excited than he’d care to admit, and Haizaki’s that way, too.

“Anyway, I’d rip you to shreds on the court.”

Ishida snorts. Haizaki may have more than a few centimeters on him and may play more often, but he’d really like to see him try—not that he’s going to fall for the temptation (although it’s quite appealing, almost as if Haizaki’s a psychic, guessing where Ishida’s train of thought is going).

“But I have to go,” says Haizaki, depositing a wad of bills on the countertop. Ishida brings him the change and he stuffs it in his pocket, sending a casual wave back as he walks out to the beat of the silent music that’s always playing in his head (it’s probably some cheap imitation of gangster rap; he seems like the type who’d love it unironically).

Ishida smiles. He’s come a long way, this stupid punk.


End file.
